


Ça va, ça va

by Sholio



Category: Engrenages | Spiral
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-09
Updated: 2015-04-09
Packaged: 2018-03-22 03:04:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3712423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sholio/pseuds/Sholio
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They're all okay. Missing scene for 4x05. For my h/c bingo square "nervous breakdown".</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ça va, ça va

**Author's Note:**

> If you haven't seen the show, all you really need to know is that they're cops, and Laure is in charge; the others are her friends as well as subordinates. One of them got shot and ended up in a coma for most of the episode. He finally woke up, after visiting hours as it turned out, so the rest of his friends/co-workers -- who are _all cops_ , which makes it even better -- snuck past the hospital staff into his hotel room with a bottle of champagne. (It was really the cutest thing ever.)
> 
> If you want to watch it - the show is called Engrenages in France, and Spiral in the UK/US - the first four seasons are streaming on Hulu, and Youtube has the current one. It's excellent, but also very dark and bleak. I think one reason why I wrote this fic is because canon finally allowed them to be happy for about 0.5 seconds before things got dark again, and I wanted to make it last a little longer.

Toying with the plastic cup of champagne in her hand, Laure found herself drifting to the outskirts of the group, her energy flagging.

She leaned against the wall at the foot of the bed and watched them: her team, her people, her boys and girls. It was relief, more than the little bit of champagne they'd had, that made the whole group relaxed and giggly ... to the point where the more sensible ones -- Amina, mostly, and an annoyed-looking Christine Fromentin -- had to keep shushing them so they didn't draw the nurses' attention and get themselves all kicked out.

Tintin wasn't really up to joining in the banter yet; he just drifted along on it, clearly listening even though his eyes kept drifting shut. He was drowsy and ill, but he was ... he was _Tintin;_ he wasn't a brain-damaged vegetable, he wasn't someone else. The same bright intelligence and humor still lived behind his eyes.

Ever since her first sight of Tintin lying in a spray of blood on the floor, she'd propped herself up with a firm bulwark of anger -- anger at herself, at Gilou, at Herville, at every damned person whose negligence had led to this.

Now, she felt the defensive wall start to buckle. Her hands trembled. Under the anger, there was ... she didn't know. Whoever Laure Berthaud was when she wasn't angry, she supposed. Laure didn't want to meet that person. She spent as much time as possible trying not to get to know her.

The room was suddenly too small, too full of people. She needed air.

She set her empty cup on the nearest surface and backed away. Leaving the little group to their warmth and camaraderie, she slipped out into the corridor. It was very late now, and the only nurse in sight was walking briskly the other way. Quickly she darted across to the stairwell and glided through the door, closing it softly behind her.

She didn't really have a plan beyond "out". Shakily she sat on the top step, clasped her hands between her knees, and let her head drop forward. It wasn't prayer. Laure Berthaud was not a praying woman. It was only a sort of ... waiting stillness, waiting for her heart to settle, waiting for her mind to stop spinning, for the trembling to stop. Just waiting: until she could go back into that room and smile, collect her team and their incriminating plastic cups, and go find a bed for a few hours. With or without someone in it, Vincent or anyone else; she wasn't picky at this point.

There was a soft click as the door opened behind her. Laure's head jerked up; then she saw who it was. Offered him a slight smile. Dropped her head again.

Gilou sat down beside her on the stairs, arms leaning heavily on his knees.

"He's going to be all right," he said at last.

"All right," she echoed. The words seemed hollow, empty of meaning. She was so tired. Had she slept, even, since Tintin was shot? Eaten? She couldn't remember.

Gilou put an arm around her and dragged her against his shoulder. She stiffened for an instant and then leaned into him, too tired not to take the comfort he offered. Wishing she had anything to give in return. She was an empty well, long since run dry.

"Shit, Gilou," she said, not looking at him, her mind drifting and eyes half closed. "I said terrible things to you."

He gave a short laugh -- hard to read the meaning behind it. "It's what it is. Don't worry about it."

"It wasn't your fault," she said. "If you went in late -- I don't know. Maybe Tintin went early. Maybe I waited too long."

"It doesn't matter now."

"It does," she said, and pressed her open palm against his broad, solid back, rubbing slowly back and forth. He was so warm. She was cold. "I'm sorry I said that to you, Gilou."

"Capitaine Laure Berthaud, apologizing," Gilou murmured. His arm around her shoulders gave a little squeeze. "Should I take notes? Date, time, place ..."

"Fucking asshole." She dragged a hand across her face. Her eyes were, to her relief, dry. Then she shoved Gilou gently, playfully, tipping him to the side. He flashed her a wide smile, crinkling the corners of his eyes. 

_Tintin's going to be all right._

_Maybe we all are. Maybe._

She pulled herself back together with a long slow breath, pushing her hair out of her face with both hands. "We should go rescue Tintin and Christine from the rest of the mob."

"When I left, the party was winding down anyway. Serge and Amina may already be gone."

Indeed they were: when Laure and Gilou crept back into Tintin's room, only Christine was left, lying curled up on the side of Tintin's bed with an air which made it evident that she did not plan to go anywhere. She looked up when they came in -- she'd been drowsing with her head on her husband's shoulder. "I thought you'd gone."

"We're leaving," Laure said. The cups and champagne bottle were gone as if they'd never been; Serge and Amina, like the good cops they were, had done a capable job of hiding evidence. Laure brushed her fingers over Tintin's cheek, and his eyes opened, blinking sleepily. "Hey. Lazy. We're going home."

"Good riddance," he murmured, smiling. "Fuck off and let a man sleep."

"You've been sleeping too much." She couldn't quite bring herself to take her hand away. His skin was warm. Alive. She leaned down and kissed him lightly on the cheek, below the bandage. Christine didn't say anything.

Gilou hooked his hand into Tintin's -- tugged lightly, as he turned away, before reluctantly letting go. "I get your desk now, right? Always hated sitting with my back to the door."

"See what I have to put up with," Tintin murmured to Christine, his eyes drifting shut.

"Don't worry, I'll leave your things in a nice pile out of the way, where the cleaning lady won't sweep them up."

Tintin, eyes closed, weakly flipped him off. Gilou grinned like a kid and did a fast little sidestep-and-turn to the door, almost like a dance.

"Capitaine," Christine said before Laure had a chance to follow Gilou out.

Laure looked back.

"Did you get him? The bastard who did this."

"Oh yes," Laure said. "Yes, we got him. Good night."


End file.
